Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

His tone made her suddenly conscious of her evening gown—pale green, with a faint suggestion of silver. Of how weightlessly cool she felt in a fabric that enveloped her like a wave.

Returning his smile, she signaled a waiter for a refill.

“For me as well, please,” Kiril told the waiter. “Where is our guest of honor?”

“Fashionably late, I’m afraid,” Adrienne replied without thinking. She sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that. My husband has always taken it hard on the rare occasion when a patient dies.”

“Everyone in our operating theater reacts the same way, from Dr.Yanin on down,” he said soberly.

She studied him for a moment. “Since Kurt shut himself in, he’s had no opportunity to thank you for jumping into the breach. I’m very grateful for what you did.”

He sat down. “Albeit unsuccessfully,” he said, an edge in his voice as he pictured the lethargic second-rate technician… the outmoded bubble oxygenator… Once Dr. Brenner had accepted the invitation, there’d been plenty of time to order a disc version.

Their champagne arrived. They finished it off in companionable silence. “On a more pleasant note,” Kiril told her, “the only thing that’s left on my itinerary before you and your husband leave for West Berlin is a private goodbye. May I come to your suite later this evening?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Please tell him to expect me. Cigarette?”

“Why not.”

He offered her one, took one himself, and tried in vain to keep the cheap East German match from sputtering and going out. He was about to try again when Aleksei entered the banquet room and scanned the center table, obviously looking for Kurt Brenner. Kiril waved Aleksei over. “Why don’t you join us? I’m sure Dr. Brenner will be down soon.”

“I hope you’re right.” Aleksei glanced around. “Quite a mob scene. Every waiter seems like he’s on roller skates. Get refills for you and Mrs. Brenner, will you? I’ll have vodka. Tell the waiter not to bother with a glass.”

Kiril grinned. “Message received. I’ll be right back with a bottle.”

“No need to hurry, Little Brother,” Aleksei said with a sly smile. “I’ve got a head start on both of you.”

Adrienne giggled. “I beg to differ, Colonel.” She started to weave in her chair.

Kiril caught her just in time. “Coffee for you,” he said.

“I’m no spoil sport,” she pouted. “Besides, it’s Kurt’s fault. He should be here by now.”

“True enough,” Aleksei said as Kiril took off after a waiter.

Aleksei sat back, preoccupied. Absently turning a cigarette lighter over and over in one hand, he noticed Adrienne Brenner’s unlit cigarette and leaned forward to light it.

She almost fell off her chair.

An ordinary American lighter—Zippos, you call them… black wings of some kind. But Ernst, what on earth are they doing on Colonel Andreyev’s lighter?

When Kiril returned with the coffee, Adrienne ignored it and reached for her champagne. As Colonel Andreyev held up his bottle and the three of them shared a toast of some kind, her thoughts were so jumbled she could only marvel at his capacity to imbibe liquor without his head falling on the table! Actually, on closer examination, he did look bleary-eyed. But then she probably did too. As for Kiril Andreyev, she thought, he was sipping the bubbly like it was ginger ale!

Aleksei glanced at this watch, stood up on surprisingly steady feet, and announced that it was time for him to leave.

“Where to?” Kiril asked.

“The Brenner hotel suite, as it happens.”

“Please tell Kurt everyone’s waiting,” Adrienne said.

Aleksei looked faintly amused. “I’ll be sure to give him the message.”

The elevator’s swift descent to the 21st floor was a good omen, Aleksei thought. Act swiftly and you checkmate von Eyssen. Pull this off and no matter what happened on Glienicker Bridge, you return to Moscow in triumph instead of disgrace.

The elevator slowed. When Aleksei stepped off, Major Dmitri Malik was waiting in the foyer.

Kurt Brenner, looking refreshed and elegant in an impeccably tailored tuxedo, opened the door to his suite much as a genial host welcomes dinner guests. Although he showed them an untroubled face, both Malik and Aleksei were trained to see below the surface, and what they saw was extreme anxiety. Both men sat down.

“Have your people gotten rid of the bugs?” Malik asked.

“Of course,” Aleksei assured him as he motioned Brenner to a chair facing theirs and pushed a heavy glass ashtray to the center of the table. On his own side of the table, Aleksei placed a bottle of vodka. A connoisseur of wine, Malik limited himself to smoking. Aleksei reached across the table for the vodka, though in deference to his superior he used a glass.

“What’s this all about?” Brenner asked with a combination of impatience and hauteur, determined not to let them see even a hint of fear. “The phony invitation. The use of your names. The allusion to 1945 and the Ukrainian kids. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if the malfunction of the heart-lung machine was no accident. I wouldn’t put it past the two of you. And what’s this ‘Chancellor’ business, Dmitri?”

“Ah, Doc, Doc,” Malik sighed, warming to the business at hand. “Let’s just say that my administrative position at the oldest university in Germany—East or West—is a convenient platform from which I can oversee goals important to the national security of both the Motherland and, hopefully, the East German government. Suffice to say, I continue to be KGB and I still outrank Colonel Andreyev. But while I readily admit that what we’re about to propose was his idea, I should add that I approve wholeheartedly of the steps he’s taken.”

Making an effort to look nonchalant, Brenner said, “What ideas, gentlemen? What steps?”

Malik indicated a small briefcase which Aleksei had placed on the floor near his chair. “Colonel, please show Doc the ‘artifact’ we’ve been saving these many years.”

Aleksei put out his cigarette, opened the briefcase, and removed a large square box that dangled an electrical cord. Placing the box on the coffee table, Aleksei plugged the cord into the nearest outlet.

Brenner’s heart sank. He recognized the wire recorder. It was a World War II predecessor of today’s newer tape version. “God in heaven,” he whispered as if he were alone in the room, realizing that Malik and Andreyev must have recorded him when he sold out the Ukrainian children.

Unless they were bluffing. Even if they weren’t, maybe he’d been careful not to incriminate himself. Or maybe a wire recording this primitive could not survive the last fifteen years.

As if Malik were a mind-reader, he said, “No, Doc, we are not bluffing. And yes, a fifteen-year-old wire recording can indeed pass the test of time.” Smiling broadly, he stood up.

But instead of leaving, Malik leaned against the doorway with folded arms—as if, after all those years, he couldn’t resist witnessing Brenner’s frantic response to the blackmail.

Aleksei tossed back his glass of vodka in a single gulp, activated the recorder with the spool of wire… and released the past.

When it was over, Malik left the suite, as if he’d lost interest in what was to follow.

The first words that spilled from Brenner’s mouth were, “Name your price, Colonel.”

“Name your price,” Aleksei repeated, parroting Brenner. “Save your money, Doc . We have something else in mind. We want you to defect to the Soviet Union.”

Brenner shot to his feet. The idea that he would agree to spend the rest of his life in some squalid Communist dictatorship was so far removed from his rational zone of reference that he could only stare.